


Flaming Sword, Storming Sea

by literallyjustanerd



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Forbidden Love, Knight, Princess - Freeform, Royalty, Secret Relationship, i'm a sucker for knight/princess dynamics okay sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25163257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literallyjustanerd/pseuds/literallyjustanerd
Summary: Adora has spent her life training to the crown. As the fated hero She-Ra, her sole duty and purpose is to protect the heir to Bright Moon's throne, Princess Glimmer, and the kingdom expects their betrothal is only a matter of time. However, when a looming threat forces Bright Moon to ally with age-old enemies in the Fright Zone, Adora quickly finds herself wrapped in a torrid affair with King Hordak's adopted daughter. Sneaking around the palace behind the kingdom's backs, she risks everything she has worked for, everything she is supposed to want. But despite trying to stay loyal to her fate, Catra is there wherever she turns. Tensions mounting both within the palace walls and without, what will win in the battle between Adora's head and her heart?
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Bow/Glimmer (She-Ra)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83





	1. Prologue

Adora tries to walk two paces behind Glimmer, as she has been instructed since well before her memory began. And, as it has been since just as long ago, Glimmer does not make it easy. The pair perform a familiar dance as they stroll through the village, falling in and out of step with each other as Glimmer attempts to find a spot beside her escort, though she stops now and then to peruse the many stalls and spreads of the marketplace. A high sun sees the area thick with life and buzzing with pleasant noise—sellers hawk their goods to passersby, gossiping circles of parents bounce wriggling infants on their hips, a bard’s troupe crafts a playful melody with a lute and panpipe. Mule-drawn carriages ferrying food and goods trundle across the uneven cobblestones, with children running behind and jumping to try and hitch a ride on the hay bales. One of these carriages passes by Adora, and a handful of young faces, dirty with mischief, alight upon seeing her, waving eagerly and fighting for a good view. Adora affords them a polite nod and raises a cordial hand, eyes following the cart. It meanders towards the outskirts of town, towards the mill and the blacksmith. The learning halls, too, are down that path, still at least ten minutes’ walk away. Adora is fighting a losing battle to stay on time.

“What do you think mother would say if I brought one of these home?”  
Adora turns. In her hands, Glimmer holds a tiny, peeping duckling from a farmer’s stall, tenderly stroking its head with one finger. Adora blinks.  
“Do you not already keep ducks on the palace grounds?”  
“Well, yes, but you know how brutish those things are. I want something that’s _mine,_ not the palace’s. Something I can keep in my room. I could train him to eat all the bugs by the window. Then you wouldn’t have to kill them for me anymore.”  
This draws a smile from Adora, an accomplishment Glimmer is almost unbearably smug about.  
“Put that poor thing back. We ought to be getting on.”

Most of the village folk give the two young women a wide margin as they continue through the street, some adding brief curtseys or bows as a further flourish of respect. Glimmer pays little mind, and in fact regards the people as casually as old friends. Her eyes catch and light up when another group of children barrel across their path, brandishing wooden swords with shields fashioned from pot lids. Half the children wear a crudely painted moon insignia on their improvised armour, whilst the others carry a symbol resembling two great red bat wings. Glimmer shakes Adora’s arm in excitement, looking up at her hopefully. Swayed by the jovial mood of the day and by the earnest excitement in Glimmer’s eyes, she sighs and nods her head in the children’s direction. This is all the prompting needed: Glimmer rushes into the mock-battle headfirst. The children are overjoyed to have a warrior queen on their side to lead the kingdom of Bright Moon to victory, fawning over the iridescent thread in the embroidered moon pattern on the back of her dress. Parents step in to apologise and demand their children show proper respect to their princess, but Glimmer stops them with a laugh and takes the children’s jostling in stride. Soon, she has joined their battle cries, banishing the vanquished Horde soldiers back to the enemy kingdom of the Fright Zone.

The adults surrounding the game smile and laugh amongst themselves as the princess congratulates the young soldiers on a war well fought, sourcing a stall-runner who is happy to provide some of their sweet pastries and citrus curds to act as spoils for their victory. Glimmer herself partakes heartily, bringing an armload back to offer, and then insist, that Adora shares. The early afternoon is warm, turning the air sticky after an early morning shower, and her armour weighs hot and heavy. The refreshments are tempting, and Adora almost finds herself reaching for one before catching sight of a pair of vendors watching them intently. Whispers are exchanged, and despite their suddenly averted eyes, the conspiratorial glint of amateur matchmaking is strong in their smiles and giggles. One has a hand laid across her heart, the other sneaks glances back at the pair that are not nearly as discreet as she seems to think. Adora draws back her shoulders, locks her arms behind her, and politely refuses the pastries, steering them again into the crowd until it begins to thin and they reach the tree-lined path that leads to the halls.  
Shadow Weaver stands before the door as they finally arrive. Her eyes, just barely visible set deep within a myriad deep, richly-coloured scarves and cloaks layered around her, are sharp, creased deeply in displeasure. Whatever qualms she has, however, she holds her tongue and escorts Glimmer inside without a word to Adora, who is left staring at the intricate carvings on the heavy oak door as it shuts behind them. As many times as she has graced the premises run by Bright Moon’s wisest and most trusted elders, Shadow Weaver chief among them, she has not once seen the interior of the chambers in which the princess is educated, learning the histories and languages and cultural practices of the many nations that surround their kingdom. Her place is in the training ring towards the back of the grounds. Her feet trace steps she has taken countless times, long enough ago for her skinned knees and muddy clothes to have become calloused hands and gilded armour.

Many memories of her earliest days have long since left her, but Adora can still recall her first day of training. It was cold— early winter, and it had rained heavily. On days when the dirt of the training ring is wet and the sky looks as dark as dusk at midday, she finds it difficult not to let the memory overtake her. Three years old, barely grown enough to hold the blunt practice sword they thrust upon her. Her hands ached from the cold, she remembers – her fingers were bright red and felt numb within minutes. The drills continued nonetheless, and after she was tired out and soaked through, she was brought inside the armoury, marvelling at the mounted weapons, from the plainest silver dagger to the most dazzling emblazoned shields. One item, however, stood above the rest, and she was urged on until she stood below it. A sword, illuminated in a golden hue that put every other treasure to shame. The patterns in its hilt twisted and braided around a sizeable jewel clasped firmly within. It almost appeared as though the metal had grown in around it, like the branches of a wizened old oak.  
It was then that Adora first heard the name She-Ra, the word drawn out and intoned in Shadow Weaver’s careful, refined voice. She had craned her neck to try and better see the relic, all while her role in the kingdom’s ancient cycle was explained. She had been chosen as She-Ra’s incarnation. The human vessel of Bright Moon’s fated hero, and the destined protector of the heir to its throne. Each generation had its own She-Ra, its own champion. Adora’s identity was confirmed at the moment of her birth by Shadow Weaver herself, determined by she and the other elders’ readings of the stars, and of the strange and cryptic signs left by the gods. The story, and her place in it, would be told to her many times over the next years, so often that she could match it word for word. However, on that first day, they could not have been of less interest to the little girl, shivering in clothes soaked through and wanting, more than any promised fate or destined glory, to be allowed home for some bread and butter by a warm fire.

Adora pushes her reverie from her mind as she takes her place in the ring, feet apart, knees bent. Her hand falls on the hilt of the weapon she had once thought she would never lift, let alone master. Fingers find their place within the ridges of the grip, and she feels a familiar thrum travel into her palm, as though the sword is leaping at her presence and at their reunion. A metallic ring penetrates the arena as the sword of protection is drawn. Adora steels herself, tries in vain to keep her thoughts from crowding her mind. She runs through basic stances, the sword sweeping in wide arcs following the momentum of her movement. In her rounds, her eyes catch on a window into the princess’s chamber. When she raises for a downward strike, she can just barely catch a glimpse of Glimmer’s pink curls. In the back of her mind she hears the coy laughter of the pair of nosy vendors, a sudden bitter taste in her mouth. They are far from the only two, though it never seems to grow easier to hear it. She-Ra was the protector to Bright Moon’s heir, that was true, but for the last seven generations, the fated hero had taken the throne themselves as the monarch’s spouse. It was true of Glimmer’s mother, Queen Angella, and her husband King Micah, as it had been true for over a century. And in the kingdom’s eyes, the love between the hero and their heir was as much a part of the legend as any other. They were a living, breathing romantic melodrama, sprung to life from the books and broken free from the stage to play out in their marketplaces and palace halls.

Darkness has fallen by the time Adora finds a way to stumble from the foggy woods of her own thoughts. Satisfied with her work for the day, the sword is sheathed and she returns to the door of the royal chamber to wait for Glimmer’s return. When she emerges, looking bleary-eyed and vague from another deluge of information in Shadow Weaver’s unshakeable monotone, they make the walk back to the palace in silence. The grounds are resplendent in the twilight, pale moonlight bouncing off the creamy white stone of the domes and spires, bright enough to bathe the gardens in an ethereal silvery light. They reach Glimmer’s bedchamber, a fire already stoked and readied by her maids, a simple supper and pot of tea waiting beside it. Glimmer enters, then turns to regard Adora.  
“Would you like to join me? It’s been a long day, but I’m not ready for bed yet.”   
“Thank you, your highness, but I should get to sleep,” Adora recites. Glimmer smiles meekly, searchingly.  
“Are you sure? I could sneak some cake for us from the kitchens, and we could play a game of cards?”  
“I really must be—”  
“ _Adora.”  
_ Adora’s mouth opens again, instinctively, but this time she takes the time to think over her words. And hours later, stomach full of hot tea and chest full of laughter, sitting warm by the fire beside a good friend, she is glad she did.


	2. A Changing Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not well in the kingdom of Bright Moon. For the first time in generations, the kingdom's peaceful way of life has been threatened, and not all of the royal family approves of the proposed solution. Adora and Glimmer meet with a friend, and together discuss their historic enemy and his mysterious new ward.

The first sign that all was not normal came when a scheduled import of nutmeg and ginger was delayed by almost a full week. A trivial matter, despite the spices being essential for Glimmer’s favourite dessert – Adora rolled her eyes many a time that week at the princess’ pouting. It should not have been a cause for concern, and for that first week, it wasn’t. But when other, less frivolous supplies began facing similar delays, suspicion was raised. Soon, the first of the stories was told – a merchant travelling north to trade goods had been stopped by Horde soldiers, demanding a steep tariff for passage through their territory. When the merchant was unable to meet the cost, their cart was ransacked, stripped of every shred of valuable material and left barely holding together long enough for the journey home.

Similar stories cropped up as the days passed by. Day by day, the restrictions grew tighter, the taxes grew higher, and the markets grew barer. And so, a meeting of the queen’s council was called, in a cavernous chamber that for over a decade had not seen discussion of any issue greater than the seating arrangements at the annual midsummer ball. The kingdom’s longstanding peace, however, has done nothing to dull the Queen Angella’s resolve, nor wither the strength she exudes as she declares the council in session. She speaks as though each word is the bedrock beneath the palace she presides over, and holds the room’s attention effortlessly in her palm from long before she opens her mouth. It is a wonder to watch, and a rarity in a period of such seemingly impervious harmony. In the back of her mind, beneath the first sparks of worry for the state of her kingdom, Adora feels privileged at the opportunity to witness it.

She is, as always, present only to act as Glimmer’s escort, standing with feet parted and arms at ease beside Glimmer’s seat at the round table. Glimmer’s attendance, too, is in some capacity merely a formality. She has begged her parents many a time, in a manner entirely unregal, to attend the meetings of the royal council. Her mother, seemingly immune to all provoking bar that of her daughter, had finally relented and found a seat for the princess, on the condition that she show the proper respect and, as was heavily implied, keep her mouth shut. To her credit, Glimmer had managed to do so perfectly well so far, though there was a not insignificant chance that this was due to the simple fact that the meeting was far less exciting than she’d expected. Adora watches as the princess traces the lacquered wood grain of the table for the tenth time in as many minutes, and suppresses a smirk at the irony of the situation. She can already hear Glimmer’s complaints over their supper that night. _Of course I feel terrible for what’s happening out there, but I’ve never heard such pressing matters delivered with such dullness!_

Fifteen minutes later, and halfway through another stifled yawn from the princess, a royal vizier delivers the first news of the whole meeting to cause Glimmer to raise her head and straighten her back. Adora is at first puzzled as to why; it is no more than an estimation of the Horde’s foot soldiers, extrapolated from one victimised trader’s account. She is not left wondering for long.  
“This merchant, she is a baker from the southern village, is she not? She sells pastries in the markets,” Glimmer blurts, eyes wide like someone woken suddenly from a bad dream. The meeting grinds to a screeching halt. A dozen sets of eyes lock onto the princess, many noting her presence for the first time since the council’s commencement. At the head of the table, the queen bristles, though Glimmer is either oblivious or choosing to ignore the silent warning. It is then that Adora has her realisation. Their walk to the learning halls, now several weeks ago, the mock battle fought and won, the sweet breads and cakes happily donated as prizes. The memory had faded near into obscurity, as had the name and the face of the baker providing the treats, the conversation shared between her and the princess as the children around them celebrated a victory. The same could not be said for Glimmer, it seemed.

“I— yes,” the councilman says slowly. “Though I fail to see how that is of importance. Your Highness.”  
"You say her entire stock was taken by Horde soldiers. Dozens of sacks of grain and salt. Over a hundred pounds.”  
“Yes, Your Highness. It was lost, however many other traders managed to make the journey with their stores intact. There is no risk of a grain shortage at this time.” The words are said with finality, and not a small amount of condescension. Like a weary parent reminding a particularly naïve child that there is no monster beneath their bed, irritation seeping into their voice despite attempts to remain cordial. The attempted rebuffing has no effect on Glimmer, however, whose hands ball into fists on the table, jaw tightening.  
“I understand that. That was not my reason for speaking,” she says firmly. “What has been done to ensure that the trader is not left without the proper means to support herself until another load of supplies can be obtained?”  
“That is none of the kingdom’s concern,” another council member interjects rather sharply. “We have larger matters to attend to, we cannot afford to be at the beck and call of every merchant who lacks the sense to adequately prepare for times of hardship. Now if you will _please_ —”  
“She was already facing hardship!” The words echo in the cavernous chamber, the councillor stunned into silence. If Glimmer hadn’t meant to raise her voice on purpose, she certainly does nothing to take it back. “If you had cared to actually _speak_ to her, you would know that her wife is suffering a dire illness. All the coin she has, she spends on her care and treatment!”  
“There are a great many more—”  
“She deserves our aid. She deserves compassion from the kingdom she serves. As do all who have—"  
“ _Princess Glimmer_.” The voice is not loud. Barely loud enough to be heard over Glimmer’s emboldened denunciation. Nonetheless, it is enough to dry the words from Glimmer’s throat in an instant, turning her fiery passion to paralysing fear. The queen has risen from her seat, standing tall, shoulders square, fire in her eyes. Glimmer has broken the conditions of her attendance.

Adora’s tenses, stance widening instinctively as though preparing for an attack. For as much as her face remains stony, internally she cringes in sympathy for what her princess is about to face. Another of Queen Angella’s many unnerving talents is her ability to impart the bite of the most furious tirade without once having to actually raise her voice. In the exchange that follows, it would be easy to forget that she was speaking to her own daughter and not to some random unfortunate councilmember: she makes short work of Glimmer’s disrespect, condemns her speaking out of turn and her undignified manner, and firmly ‘suggests’ a curt apology followed by a prompt dismissal from the meeting. With bated breath, Adora watches as Glimmer swallowes her pride like a rock, squeezes out her plea for pardon, and makes for the doors at the far end of the chamber. Adora is close behind, their footsteps echoing loud in the continuing silence, until at last the heavy doors shut behind them. Adora’s mouth opens, but no words follow. She is unsure even of what her intent would have been – the sight of Glimmer straining to hold back her tears leaves Adora’s mind struck dumb. Glimmer makes no attempt to break the quiet either, and so it hangs over them like a haze as they walk – the princess ahead, her knight two paces behind.

*****

“It can’t be true, can it? I told them they were mad, that you would laugh in their faces at the idea. You must have _something_ you can tell me to put their fears to rest.”  
“I _can’t,_ Bow. I wasn’t even _at_ the meeting when it was discussed, I heard nothing of it. And _nobody_ will tell me.”  
Bow sighs, leaning back on his elbows in the grass. The tall hedges of the palace’s garden conceal them well, though Glimmer’s whining would be enough to negate that effect if someone were to come looking for them. She sits –a rather generous word, given that she has manoeuvred herself into an almost entirely upside-down position– on a smooth stone bench next to the fountain at the centre of the gardens. Her afternoon robes, the new white silk and lace ones laid out by her lady’s maids, are spattered with water from the fountain’s spray, and dimly Adora hopes that the sun will dry the damp spots before the queen notices. It is noon, or thereabouts. Bow will soon have to return to the outer ring of the kingdom, sneaking back out the way he came to the training halls of the royal guard.

“They must have lost their minds. The _Fright Zone_? Of all the possible allies to pursue, why _them_? Why not Salineas? Why not Plumeria, or Snows? We have a _much_ stronger relationship with any one of them.”  
“But they are hardly prepared for war,” Adora offers, sitting upright between her two friends, legs folded neatly before her. “Their leaders are strong, but their kingdoms are in no shape for combat. They hardly have an army to speak of at all.”  
“No surprise that the Fright Zone has the biggest armed forces on the continent,” Glimmer mutters. “I bet they all dream of war every night.”  
“What evidence do we have that they would even consider accepting that kind of offer from us?” Bow adds, hand dipping forward to pick another sweet bun from the waxed paper package he had brought as an afternoon snack.  
“They might join us out of fear of being taken over by the Horde again,” Adora muses, eyeing the spread herself. Bow notices, and tosses one to her with a smile. She catches it and eagerly tears into the sugary thing, her next words muffled through a full mouth. “Only two generations have passed since their secession. They must be desperate to maintain their independence.”  
“Secession or not, it is still laughably unwise to trust them,” Glimmer harrumphs. “Horde scum once, Horde scum forever.”

Glimmer’s was an opinion quite widely held through the entire continent of Etheria. Despite King Hordak’s attempts to establish himself and the kingdom of the Fright Zone as independent, he had never managed to shake their connection to the Horde. Tipping her chin up to gaze at the dappled sun through the trees, Adora gives a relenting sigh.  
“You aren’t entirely wrong, I suppose. If King Hordak is so desperate to separate the Fright Zone from the Horde, he really ought to consider not continuing the Horde’s habit of trying to colonise every nation in Etheria.”  
Glimmer continues speaking as though she hadn’t heard a single word her guard had said. “A boar-headed, power-hungry tyrant, he is. So desperate to create himself an empire, and so greedy that he expects it overnight.”  
Bow abruptly sits up, the promise of gossip glinting in his eyes. He leans forward conspiratorially as he speaks, like they were not alone in the centre of the most private garden in Bright Moon.  
“That’s why he adopted the new princess, is it not? I’ve heard she is already as ruthless as the king himself.”  
“That is what they say,” Glimmer confirms, and recites a few lines from her lessons, with far less interest than Bow seems to take. The Fright Zone had no shortage of orphans, a grim result of the bloody path to independence. King Hordak, unwilling to waste time with marriage and childrearing, had made trips and sent his viziers out among the people, and returned one day with a young woman around Glimmer’s own age, one he declared was fit to be groomed into his successor, the one to continue his legacy and his mission. It is news Adora has heard before but paid little mind to, beyond the vague sour taste the whole arrangement left in her mouth.

Bow opens his mouth to reply but is cut off by the sound of a distant horn, echoing from the direction of the training camp. Shoulders slumping, Bow drags himself to his feet, gathering his quiver and bow and dusting himself off. Glimmer moves with more energy than she has all day, springing up to see him off. When Bow dips to kiss the princess' forehead, Adora awkwardly averts her eyes, bouncing on her heels and pressing her mouth into a thin line. When she looks back, Glimmer is still wearing a giddy smile, holding onto Bow’s hand until he drifts far enough that their fingers unlace and fall apart. For a moment, she seems lost in thought, only drawn back to the present when Adora gives a playful dig with her elbow. This earns her a shove and a sheepish smile.  
“Oh, come off it,” Glimmer laughs, as the two gather their own things and begin back towards the palace. “You’ll fall for someone one day. Then you won’t be so high and mighty.”

Adora knew little of love, that much she would readily admit. She thought she had felt it, at one time. It was a time she and Glimmer both looked back on with no small amount of embarrassment, and one they teased each other with on the days when they weren’t too ashamed to think about it. In retrospect, it was unsurprising that two children who had been told from birth that they were destined to be lovers should eventually start pretending it was true. For weeks around the time of her fourteenth birthday, Adora had spent her nights convincing herself that the affection she felt for Glimmer was more than platonic, ignoring the voice of doubt in the back of her mind. She had no experience with romance, she told herself, and so who was she to say that what she felt _wasn’t_ love? Glimmer’s stunted reciprocation to her half-hearted gestures only pushed her on, neither aware that each was as uncomfortable as the other. A month of this stuttering, clumsy courting came to a head at that year’s summer harvest festival. Late into a night of celebration, the two found themselves alone on one of the palace terraces overlooking the kingdom. It was an exceptionally warm night, and each was feeling the headiness of their first sips of wine pilfered from the cellars. Their lips had met for only a split second before both aborted the whole operation, first falling over apologies and then, when the truth was revealed, laughing until their sides hurt at the how long their folly had lasted. Now, the event was little more than a childhood regret, looked on with a certain strange fondness for their bygone naivety.

The two young women continue to swap light-hearted jabs at each other through the gardens and into the palace halls. The sun and good company have warmed their spirits, and keep them elevated through most of the afternoon, until the moment they hear the latest news at dinner. A truce with the Fright Zone had been reached, and in the interest of addressing the threat of the Horde as swiftly as possible, Fright Zone ships carrying the king and his council would be arriving within a week. Days of frustration and nervousness and speculation passed, and the day fast arrived that their newfound allies were due to make port, to be received and welcomed and shown directly to the very heart of the kingdom. Glimmer had already remarked more than once that it felt like someone showing a wolf pack into their home for dinner. On a brisk, windswept evening, the last dregs of daylight quickly fading below the horizon behind them, Adora and Glimmer stand side by side on the harbour in Bright Moon’s shadow, watching as vague, nebulous silhouettes in the distance become towering ships, with black-painted hulls and crimson sails bearing the Fright Zone insignia. Adora feels Glimmer grasp a handful of her coat, hears a stiff swallow from the princess beside her. The first of these vessels approaches the docks, and standing at the top of the deck, flanked on all sides by armed guards, is King Hordak.


	3. Striking Flint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bright Moon's reluctant new allies from the Fright Zone arrive. At the welcoming feast, Adora first encounters Princess Catra. Gay panic ensues. That's it, that's the chapter.

The king’s guards disembark before he does. Footfalls heavy down the gangplank, they form a line before the king and queen, standing as straight and rigid as the halberds they wield.  
“Braggart,” Glimmer mumbles, just barely loud enough to be heard over the wind. Adora has to disguise her laugh as a cough. In perfect unison, each moving as one limb of a larger body, the guards pound their halberds on the wooden dock and part, morphing into a tight corridor. Their gestures lack fluidity, are utterly devoid of even a hint of individuality. The display leaves her vaguely off-kilter, like stepping ashore after a long day at sea. From somewhere aboard the carrack, a horn sounds, and with another _crack_ on the dock from the guards, the king makes his descent.

His robes are a striking combination of red and black, accented thickly with panels of blinding silver. The fabrics are of a rich, heavy weave, cut into sharp angles and form-fitting, free from drapery but for the gaudy, obtrusive cloak that sits atop his shoulders. Adora feels both an instinctual disliking towards the man and an intimidation; his very presence commanded no less. The queen, chin held high, steps forward, breaching the transparent barrier between the two parties. The wind tugs at her skirts, her shawl and her hair, leaves the layers flickering like lilac flames. She speaks as boldly as ever, and yet the volume of her words is still stolen by the gale, reaching the two young women only faintly. A brief welcome is given, a promise of hospitality and gratitude for the aid. The princess and her knight are given an introduction among the rest of the court, Glimmer and Adora each giving the proper curtsey or bow. King Hordak’s expression remains etched in stone, sparing his breath save for a scant few words here and there. Formalities out of the way, they are ushered back towards the waiting carriages for the short trip to the palace. Behind them, another troupe of soldiers march across the deck and down to the pier, in tight enough step to conceal whoever stands within their formation.  
“That must be Princess Catra,” Glimmer whispers, craning her neck to try and catch a glimpse of the young woman. “Why would she not be at Hordak’s side? Why would he not introduce her now?”  
“Perhaps he dislikes having to share the attention,” Adora replies with a smirk that Glimmer slyly returns. One more twist over her shoulder – no sign of the princess, and her escorts are growing more distant, obscured behind Bright Moon’s own guardians and the other dignitaries in attendance. “It’s a serious question. Though I can’t say I blame the poor girl. I would not exactly be desperate to spend time near that man, either. Imagine having him for a _father_.”

At the palace, in the hall reserved only for the most lavish occasions, a feast has been laid out waiting for them. The table spans the full length of the immense chamber, so many dishes piled high with food that the tablecloth was scarcely visible underneath. Adora can’t recall ever having seen such extravagance, even years prior at the wedding of the Countesses Spinerella and Netossa. Music echoes through the ancient stone walls, a group of minstrels plucking away across the hall. They will be expected to partake in the dances following their meal, a thought that spikes Adora’s nerves. The routines have never made sense to her—no matter how many times it is demonstrated to her, her feet can never find the right places, and her arms hang stiff and awkward around her partner. Like the dances, the feast at large is also steeped in routine and strict etiquette, speeches and rituals, but this, at least, Adora can get over and done soon enough. She and Glimmer are announced after the king and queen, and enter arm in arm.  
“Kneel, present the sword, wait for the sash,” Glimmer whispers. “Kneel. Sword. Sash.”  
“I know, I know. I can handle this just fine, stop fretting.”  
“Are you certain? You forgot the sash last time. You stood up too soon, you know how long my bruise lasted where your head hit mine.” She looks sublime in her evening gown, glittering with hundreds of sewn-in beads of reflective glass. She moves naturally, paces long and sure as they take their places standing beside her parents. Adora, on the other hand, feels like an animal in the palace menagerie, bare and vulnerable without her usual leather armour. The gleaming gold pauldron strapped to her chest is hardly practical, purely ceremonial and offering little in the way of protection. Her breeches are too thin and her tunic is too tight. Her hair itches against her neck, the longing to tie it back up lurking at the back of her mind. At the forefront is hunger, stomach turning over as the glorious scent of the feast floods her senses. Her eyes wander the spread, flitting from dish to dish along the great table until they reach the head and are suddenly, jarringly frozen, all thought burned from her mind, kindling turning to smoke.

At the far and of the table, sitting at King Hordak’s right hand, is a girl that steals the breath from Adora’s lungs, turns her limbs to stone, dizzies her head like wine. The girl is all sharp angles, and Adora finds herself mapping them with her gaze. Trancelike, she follows the peak of her shoulder to the valley of her collarbone, up a slender neck to a carved jawline obscured by a wild mane of hair the colour of strong coffee. Freckles dapple a smooth, tan face, lending a childish innocence that contrasts starkly to her demeanour. She holds herself as though her seat is a throne, poised and cool, regal with an air of volatility. Like the ocean waves on a hot summer day, Adora suddenly feels compelled by instinct to venture closer, to seek relief, to immerse herself entirely. Like the ocean, however, danger lurks beneath the surface, a hidden tempest that could drown her with one wrong step. Adora’s gaze lifts by the barest touch, met with a pair of piercing mismatched eyes. Eyes that seem to deaden the rest of the world, turning the corners of her vision dark until nothing else exists.  
Eyes that are staring straight back at her.

Only a single moment passes before Adora’s resolve crumbles and she breaks their shared look. It is too much to handle, too raw, the unfamiliar searing in her chest. It isn’t quite pain, nor is it pleasure, nor fear or embarrassment but somehow it feels like all of them at once, a coordinated ambush that would quickly have become incapacitating had she not managed to wrench her eyes away and focus instead on the queen, though not a single word of her address finds its way to Adora. Presently, she and Glimmer are called forward. Glimmer moves, and Adora wills her body to follow. Her body is two seconds behind her mind, legs ungraceful as they step forward alongside the princess. The two turn to face each other, and Glimmer’s bored expression is a balm, a grounding. Adora is able to drop onto one knee on cue, drawing her sword from the sheath at her hip and offering it to the princess. The queen invokes the gesture’s symbolism: the offering of the protection and loyalty from the gods’ chosen hero to the kingdom and its heir.  
_Wait for the sash.  
_Adora stays down, head lowered, and lets go of a breath. A length of fabric is placed around her shoulders, deep purple woven with gold. The princess’ grace and covenant to her people and her champion. In the time here that Queen Angella speaks, a mere few words lasting so little, Adora’s resolve weakens and breaks before she can realise that she had been resisting. Her eyes crack open, search the room, finding the woman across the hall. She is still staring at Adora. Persistent, unwavering, expression unchanged. Is that interest in her expression, or disdain? Is she looking intentionally at Adora, or is she simply watching the ceremony, bored and waiting to eat like Adora herself had been, a few moments and a lifetime ago?  
_“Adora?”  
_Her head jerks upwards at the sharp whisper from above her, the world falling into place around her all at once. How many seconds have passed she can only estimate by the concern and irritation on the princess’ face. When she stands, dozens of faces regard her with confusion and derision. Like magnetism, like gravity, like the tide, her eyes are drawn back to Catra’s. The fiendish smirk on her lips sets Adora’s cheeks burning brighter than they already had been.

The feast proceeds, and much to Adora’s dismay, when she accompanies Glimmer off the raised stage and towards the table, she does not make for the opposite end of the table to their visitors.  
“Where are we going? We always sit at the head of the table,” she breathes, jaw held tight and limbs growing heavier with each step towards King Hordak and Princess Catra.  
“Mother wants to show humility and respect to our guests by sitting beside them,” Glimmer replies. “I am not partial to the idea, either.”  
Adora takes in a deep breath. Places have been laid for them beside the king, the princess, and their respective attendants and guards. Adora is seated, avoiding what is in the corner of her eye. The meal begins, and around her is a flurry of knives and trays and the buzz of a dozen overlapping conversations. Minutes ago, her only wish was to do away with the formalities and eat, but now she barely touches the spread, stomach churning as though trying to claw its way into her throat.

Desperate to remain nonchalant, she forces a mouthful of roasted meat into her mouth, and slowly, deliberately slowly, casts her eyes over to where Princess Catra sits. She sips from her goblet, turned slightly away from Adora to speak to her attendant. The attendant wears the dress expected of a ladies’ maid, modest but the same deep crimson as the princess’ trousers and blouse, however her stature makes her seem more like a bodyguard. Her shoulders are broad enough that she seems cramped even at the grand table, arms tucked uncomfortably tight at her sides. Though Princess Catra speaks softly, her companion has no such discretion, laughing loud enough to draw attention from across the room. Catra turns back to her empty plate, scans the table, and lifts her eyes to Adora’s.  
“Sir Adora, if you would be so kind as to pass the buttered bread?”  
It takes a moment for the words to fight their way to Adora’s attention, much less the hint of coyness in her tone. She does as asked, afraid for a moment that someone might see her slight tremor as the breadboard changes hands. Catra thanks her, takes a slice of bread and tears into it. She leans back, slowly, leisurely, and continues her conversation with her maid, not breaking her gaze with Adora for a single moment. With one of them unwilling to look away and the other unable, the seconds stretch on until Glimmer tugs on her tunic, corralling her back into the conversation she had strayed from.  
“Are you well, Adora? Is everything alright? You’re acting strangely.”  
“Me? Yes, yes of course. Everything is perfectly fine,” she stammers. “I was only thinking that I really would like to avoid dancing once the feast is over.”  
Glimmer laughs, worries assuaged, much to Adora’s relief.  
“I thought that might be it. You can sneak off after everyone is finished eating. I’ll make sure nobody gets suspicious.”

After downing a hurried dessert and scurrying away from the feasting hall, Adora finally gains back control of her wits. The quiet of her private training arena is an oasis after the din of the feast, and having shed her stuffy and restrictive formal clothing she feels renewed. Between each set of stances, after the final imagined blow with her sword, she can hear music echoing through the old stone halls, coming and going like the flicker of the torches studding the walls. The battle against her invisible foe continues until all thought fades from her mind, the sounds of effort and heavy breathing her only company. She fights until her limbs burn, until each breath is a desperate gasp torn from her throat, until her practiced form gives way to frenzy. The world comes into view once more when her restless energy is depleted, slowly, as though the sun has risen. A strange stillness overtakes her, though the feeling could hardly be called peace. She nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears a noise from behind her, whirling around and thrusting out her sword in defence. Princess Catra stands in the doorway across the arena, lit from behind by yellow torchlight. Stark shadows lap at her body like a roiling sea, her mismatched eyes glinting in the light, two jewels of sunken treasure.

Adora wills herself to speak, but a dam has formed in her throat, and she chokes on her half-formed thoughts. Catra’s slender hand rises to comb through her hair, Adora’s eyes following, hanging on every tiny twitch of her muscles.  
“Pay me no mind, please. I hardly meant to intrude,” she says, the same playful lilt in her voice that squeezes the air from Adora’s lungs.  
“How– how long—"  
“This castle is so difficult to navigate. I was only trying to find my bedchamber, and instead I found myself helplessly lost.” She leans her hip against the doorframe and tilts her head just. Adora swallows thickly.  
“I—I would be honoured to escort you, Princess.”  
The halls of the palace’s west wing are deserted: Adora wonders just how long she spent in her own head in the arena, and more pressingly, how long Princess Catra had been observing. Despite the deadened hallways, Adora startles at every minute noise, prepared to justify her presence with the princess as though it were a scandal. For her part, Catra is unshakably cool, and unnervingly quiet. She casts sideways glances at Adora now and then, or so Adora thinks—she cannot rule out that she is only imagining it, or worse, hoping it.

They arrive at the princess’ quarters, the door slightly ajar. Catra’s lady’s maid waits inside, her concern shifting to relief and then to defensiveness when she sees Catra and Adora approach.  
“Don’t start, Scorpia,” Catra chastens. “I only got a little turned around, that’s all. Nothing untoward.” The smirk is clear in her voice as she continues. “Sir Adora was gracious enough to ensure I found my way back here safely.” She turns to face the knight, tucks a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear.  
“Thank you, Adora, and good evening. I’m sure we will be seeing more of each other.” With those simple words, Catra disappears through the gap in her chamber door, but not before laying a gentle, feather-light hand on Adora’s bicep, fingers gracing the skin for a single moment before the door closes behind her. Nonetheless, Adora feels the touch for the rest of the night.


End file.
